bitterness of grief.

One individual, however, was daily pining away before my eyes--my
faithful Bendel, who was the victim of silent self-reproach,
tormenting himself with the idea that he had betrayed the confidence
reposed in him by a good master, in failing to recognise the
individual in quest of whom he had been sent, and with whom he had
been led to believe that my melancholy fate was closely connected.
Still, I had nothing to accuse him with, as I recognised in the
occurrence the mysterious character of the unknown.

In order to leave no means untried, I one day despatched Bendel with
a costly ring to the most celebrated artist in the town, desiring
him to wait upon me. He came; and, dismissing the attendants, I
secured the door, placing myself opposite to him, and, after
extolling his art, with a heavy heart came to the point, first
enjoining the strictest secrecy.

"For a person," said I, "who most unfortunately has lost his shadow,
could you paint a false one?"

"Do you speak of the natural shadow?"

"Precisely so."

"But," he asked, "by what awkward negligence can a man have lost his
shadow?"

"How it occurred," I answered, "is of no consequence; but it was in
this manner"--(and here I uttered an unblushing falsehood)--"he was